


The Phantom of Allerdale Hall

by Burdenedwithgloriousporpoise



Category: Crimson Peak (2015), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Character Death, Creepy Siblings, Crimson Peak, Crimson Peak Inspired, F/M, Love, Musicals, Redemption, Singing, Steampunk, emancipation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:57:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5414276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burdenedwithgloriousporpoise/pseuds/Burdenedwithgloriousporpoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edith is an American novelist. She is an intelligent, no-nonsense woman...but also a dreamer with a weak spot for the fantastically dramatic. And she has the ability to see ghosts.</p><p>	Thomas Sharpe is an English inventor, a genius with more ideas than resources and a desperate need of the latter. If he can catch Edith, he can catch her substantial dowry as well—but that catch will take all the romantic pyrotechnics he can muster. However, he is instructed by his jealous sister Lucille to woo her as obliquely as possible. Edith must fall in love, but not with Thomas. He must use an alias; and he must not fall in love at all.</p><p>**Warning: Some singing involved.</p><p>*Shooting for monthly updates! (More to come once school life calms down.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> When I put in the songs, I adjusted words and titles in some places. Note for those who are not "Phans" *Members of the Phantom of the Opera fandom*: I tried to match my lyrics to the rhythm/tune of the original songs. I used the titles of those songs as the chapter titles if you wanted to look them up and hear how they sound. (That's just the sort of nerdy thing I like to do, so I thought I'd let you know ;) )

Most of the hall had collapsed, but the once-grand foyer was still intact enough to host the auction. Cloth-draped articles stood like quiet ghosts behind the tiny auctioneer. The crowd was small. Most were from out of town. A creak, a slight flash of red around a corner. He blinked and shook his head. Even still, this house played tricks on people. No wonder the turnout was so few.

"Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen: a peculiar clockwork model." The auctioneer gestured towards it and a wiry assistant stepped up. The model was of a figure sitting at a desk, three cups before him. The assistant put a marble beneath one of the cups, wound the figure and released the key. In a tiny clockwork symphony the figure lifted one of the cups over the ball and shuffled it haltingly around the desk. It then lifted the cups to reveal the empty tray; opened its mouth and the tiny orb rolled out.

Silence.

"This item, discovered in the attic workshop, still in working order, ladies and gentlemen. Showing here. May I commence at fifteen pounds?"

He raised his hand.

"Fifteen, thank you. Fifteen I am bid. Do I hear twenty?" Silence from the little crowd. "Sold, for fifteen pounds to the good Dr. McMichael. Thank you sir."

Alan took the figurine and retreated back from the crowd, taking a seat against the wall by the door.  _A collector's piece indeed...every detail exactly as she said. Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?_

"Lot 666 then--a chandelier, in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of Allerdale; a mystery never fully explained. We are told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired and wired parts of it for the new electric light. Perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen?"

The cover was pulled from the sorry heap--and there it was again. His heart froze. Awe. Pain. Fear. To see it there, crumpled like the broken corpse of an old foe. Almost accompanied by a soaring score of inward music the soot seemed to be flushed from the walls and replaced with rich colors; reds and blues and deep greens. Pictures were restored, the magnificent staircases rebuilt, the rubble lifted and re-formed into the hall and upper room, cobwebs blown away and the roof re-assembled as the chandelier lifted back to its original place in a blaze of restored light. He was outside again, approaching on that wretched snowy night; a young man of twenty. No. Even further back. Back to Buffalo, New York, where the whole affair began.


	2. Think of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a precious dream is de-railed, Edith sings her frustration about the male-dominant world in which she lives. She then makes the acquaintance of one such male and takes pleasure in expressing her distaste.

The publisher's heavy-lidded gaze flicked over her manuscript. After a moment he took a deep breath. "You did not tell me it was to be a ghost story."

Edith maintained an even tone, a steady stare. "It's not a ghost story. It's a story with a ghost in it. The ghost is a metaphor."

The big man sighed, gave it another disdainful glance. "Your handwriting is good."

Indignation spread to her face in a flush and she clenched her teeth.

He lifted his languid stare, voice ponderous as if it carried some great importance--perhaps a dose of 'how the world works' to help the poor naive creature before him. "Miss Cushing, could I offer a suggestion?"

*

She slammed through the door, back onto the porch overlooking the bustling square and stopped to catch her breath. "The nerve!" Edith gathered her skirts and stormed down the stairs into the crowd. Fiery heat pulsed through her cheeks. "A love story!" She whirled and shot an angry glance back at the building. "You're only depriving yourselves, you know! Imagine if Mary Shelley had been turned away for her Frankenstein!" Hot tears stung her eyes and she wiped them away. "Stupid..." She shook her head. "If I was a man this would have have been snapped up in a heartbeat." The dogeared pages stuck out of her satchel, sending a gentle twang of humility. "At least they would have been considered." She stopped and heaved a sigh. 

So many men. So many intelligent men--how did this stigma against her gender remain? Workers bustled around. She was every bit their equal. Maybe even their better, in areas of learning and experience. She drew herself up and put her shoulders back. "I won't have it. I won't have your idiotic stereotypes."

Going home so filled with steam would be unwise, so she turned down the scenic route and took a deep breath.

 

"When you think of me

You think of me oddly

when we've said

goodbye.

 

You think of me,

precocious and daring

\--Can't, imagine

why...

 

And when you find

that once again

I've seemed

to break your stiff 

constricting mold

 

You shake your head

and roll your eyes,

and wish that I

would fold.

 

How can you think

The standards you have set

Are some divine authority?

 

It cannot be

I won't accept it

Try to think

like me!"

*

Alan stopped and turned at the yellow-clad angel sailing past. That face--that voice. Unmistakable. 

"Can it be?

Can it be Edith?

What-ho! Edith!"

 

She didn't hear him, but probably just as well. He grinned and sang to himself as she walked away.

 

"You're just the same

So stubborn in your ways

Headstrong and stifled by this world

 

She may not think twice of me

but

I admire her..."

*

"I've never been, and I will never be

the way you all imagine me

I hope and pray there comes a day, when

you will finally see!"

 

Her house came into view. She paused on the doorstep to compose herself before entering. Father understood. He could see. He would be disappointed as well.

*

She paced the dining room while he sat at the table. Light filtered through the windows. "He said he needed a love story! Can you believe it? He said it only because I was a woman."

Father gave her a slight smile. "Everyone stands a chance of falling in love, dear. Even women."

She turned. "But I don't want to write a story like that."

He nodded in an understanding way, then set a small package on the table. "Well, my dear, I had hoped to give this to you as a celebration present, but...especially now, it is good to be well-armed with the tools of your trade."

She sat and unwrapped it. It was a lovely pen. "It's beautiful," she breathed. "But..." She sighed. "I would really like to write it on a typewriter, like the one in your office."

"A typewriter?"

"Yes. So that my handwriting won't give me away as a woman."

A flicker of sympathy crossed his face, followed by acquiescence. He nodded. "If that is what you wish."

*

Sideways glances had been cast her way since she arrived, but let them stare. The keys continued their relentless clack, the text its inky march across the paper.

A male voice with British accent. "Good morning, miss."

Edith's fingers froze above the keys and she glanced up.

Expensive, tailored clothes, worn threadbare and subtly mended. A walking stick, a box, an aristocratic bearing and a handsome face. Based on those clues...a flash of irritation. This must be the baronet the girls had been discussing yesterday. Oh, how they had gushed! " _He's so handsome! ...Perfectly charming...a great dancer..."_ Coming from the silly socialite sources it did, that really meant flirtatious, shallow and useless for anything outside of frivolity. The irritation blackened. That also meant he likely had no imagination, like the publisher from yesterday. Who had rejected her manuscript. Because she was a woman.

She returned her gaze to the paper, finished typing her thought and slammed over the carriage. With a deliberate, slow air she looked up and gave him an expectant snake-stare--muted, just enough to make him uncomfortable. 

He removed his hat. "Sorry to interrupt, but I have an appointment with Mr. Carter Everett Cushing. Esquire."

"Goodness. With the great man himself?" She lessened the snake-stare and put on a neutral front.

"I'm afraid so."

Secretary Jane stepped over and Edith gave her a slight wave. "You aren't late, are you? He hates that."

"In fact, I'm a bit early."

"Oh. I'm afraid he hates that too."

He paused a moment, eyes on her desk. "Who wrote that?" He gestured to her manuscript. "I'm not a fantastic upside-down reader, but it seems..." He came around to the side of the desk and tilted it towards him. For a silent moments he skimmed, to the end of the top page and then lifted the corner to see the previous.

Edith's heart pounded.

"It's quite good. Have you read it?"

"I wrote it," she half-whispered.

He gave her a surprised look. "Do you mean you typed it for someone else, or--"

Her voice came strong again. "No. I wrote it myself."

He smiled. "I should like to read it sometime."

Heat spread through her face as her snap-judgments crumbled. "Are you in earnest?"

He nodded, seemingly sincere.

"Then...then once I finish, I'll be glad to send it. It won't be long now, just the ending."

"I shall await it eagerly." He smiled again. She returned it, genuine this time.

"Sir Thomas Sharpe!" Her father's voice and the baronet turned, shook the outstretched hand.

"Welcome to Buffalo." He looked at Edith, smiled slightly and gestured towards her. "May I introduce Edith, my daughter."

Surprise, then cheer passed over Sharpe's face.

"We've just met, father." She turned her gaze to Sharpe. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir Thomas. I hope the great man treats you well." She smiled.


	3. Angel of Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edith and her father discuss Thomas, the violin, and life priorities.

The drawing room was cozy at night, cozier still due to the rain pattering on the roof. However, her feeling was more anxious than relaxed. Father sat on the couch to her right. Not a word had been spoken since they first sat some ten minutes ago.

The board had ruled against supporting Sharpe and Father had spearheaded the decision. Moreover, it had been delivered in no uncertain terms—even brusquely, with seeming disdain. She had happened into the room at the moment of rejection, seen the light fade from Thomas's eyes. His crushed expression plucked the nerve of her own disappointment. In that moment he passed from baronet to kindred soul, another dreamer thwarted by an unseeing world.

China scraped on china as she turned her teacup back and forth in the saucer. “Father...”

“Hm?” The look in his eyes said he knew what she was going to say; but it was a gentle one that put her nervousness to rest.

“The baronet—Mr. Sharpe. You rejected him.”

Her father nodded. “There was an uncertainty about him. He didn't know what he wanted. Is he trying to be an inventor and make a machine, or return honor to his family name? What is his motivation? Until he can find a solid answer, he'll only be hurting himself and his investors. Sometimes it takes harsh words to shock a man to truth, but he'll be the better for it in the end. And besides. His hands. Softest handshake I'd ever had. He hasn't done a lick of manual labor in his life.”

She looked back to her tea. The sediment had condensed in the bottom, and swirled in a slow black cloud as she spun it around the cup. “But his mind, father. Did you see the machine? I think you would find his fingertips quite callused from modeling, drafting, creating. Perhaps his mental exertion is equivalent to a pair of roughened hands. He may be a workman of a different kind, but I think he is a workman no less.” She sighed, the pain of her own disappointment returning. “And his clothes. Tailor-made but worn through. I'll bet he inherited old money and debt, and is staking everything on this machine. He has nothing left but his dreams.” Her fingers tapped on the saucer. _And now, not even those._

He chuckled. “Such a Byronic figure must set your imagination aflame. Well, perhaps...” He gave her a raised-eyebrows look that emphasized the 'perhaps''s hypothetical nature, “...you are right. Certainly you are more observant of some aspects. I admit I had not seen it that way or thought to look from that angle. But even so, there is something I don't like about him. I've had years of experience, my dear; a life spent reading people, sizing them up. Something's missing. I don't know what.” He sighed. “I also have the power of a father's intuition. Does that satisfy you, darling?”

She smiled. “Having had my own ideas so recently rejected I cannot help but feel his pain. However...I trust you.”

“I am glad of that. I sincerely wish the best, you know. I am not a man who smiles upon injustice. And I do hope I'm not an especially hard-hearted man—hm, Edith?”

She laughed. “Certainly not. I know you to be a good and reasonable chap.”

They both chuckled. He rose and took his violin case from its nook beside the bookshelf, sat on the couch and opened it. Lovingly he removed the instrument and studied it with a nostalgic air.

“I haven't told you the story behind this beastie, have I?”

She smiled and curled up in the chair. “I don't believe you have.”

He made a chuckling sound in his throat. “Well...you know, this instrument is one of the inspirations behind all you see here.” He gestured around the room.

She cocked her head.

His eyes traced the shiny wood as he spoke, thumbs running over the the smooth edges. “There was a girl in my youth who played the violin. I used to hear her playing through her open window as I passed to work. Never saw her face. On a few occasions I was late because I stopped to listen. I had no time for music then; to hear it was like entering another world. It filled me with delight. One such time, standing beneath her window, I had a realization. This music, this celebration of rhythm and pattern and beauty and sound, this audible expression of glory...this was the purpose for my work. Work made it possible for me to survive. Music, art—that's what turns survival into life.”

He strummed the strings. “Some people talk as if money were the end-all of their ambitions. They've become so caught in the chase that they forget about the stag. Money doesn't buy the things that are worth most, but it can elevate you to a place where, if capable, you can attain them. I had no money. I couldn't afford an instrument, much less take lessons. But I knew that because of my labor, my progeny would have those chances I never had. The chances to learn about our heritage and the beauty of life; the chance to inflict your own story on the world.” He drew the bow across the strings and it hissed abominably. Edith winced and chuckled.

“It was the first thing I bought when I had the funds. Still never learned to play it, though. Unfortunately, as it now stands, I suppose I shall only have the time to learn after I die!” He played a slightly flat, squealing G.

“I don't think it's tuned.”'

“Wouldn't surprise me.”

She smiled. “You'll be an angel of music, father.”

“That sounds quite nice, actually. In the meantime, you're becoming quite the angel of music on earth!” He held out the instrument and she laughed, took it and tuned the strings.

“Shall you sing?” she asked.

He smiled and stood, cleared his throat. She put the violin to her chin.

 

“Angel of music

bright and lovely

radiant voice

of splendor

 

Angel of music

sound of beauty

food of love;

play on

 

Enrapturing melodies beckon

speak of perfection beyond

Untainted pictures of glory

Carried in your song...”

 


	4. Little Lotte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edith refuses an invitation and receives an unexpected visitor.

Edith lay on her bed, propped on her elbows. Braced before her on a large flat book was a blank sheet of paper. They stared each other down in silence. She rolled the pen between her fingertips. Something...she needed something. An idea that refused to form.

A man's voice from behind. “Little Lotte let her mind wander. Little Lotte thought, “Am I fonder of reading or of writing or of study?”

She jumped, smiled and sat up to face him. “Alan.” She wiped the ink from the nib of the pen and set it on the rest.

“Or of riddles, or of maps and travel?” he continued. He was dressed sharply, in a formal suit.

She gave a soft laugh. “Of picnics in the attic?”

“Or of chocolates.”

“Father trying to play the violin.”

They both chuckled.

“Our reading to each other, those dark stories of the north.”

“No. 'What I loved best,' Lotte said, 'was when I'm asleep in my bed'...” She sang. “And mother's dear angel sings songs in my head...”

He joined her. “And mother's dear angel sings songs in your head.” He smiled. “You sang like an angel when I saw you those days ago.”

“Father says the same, but that's just because he has only himself for reference!” They laughed. 

“Well. Despite your opinions, I am certain of what happened: I have been visited by the angel of music.” He winked, and she shook her head with a smile.

“And now, go we to the ball!”

She frowned. “The ball? Oh, Alan, you know I can never stand them. I'll be chid by every sociable lady in Buffalo over my writing, and my reading, and my attire, and my marital status, and my attitudes—and then behind my back, I'll be measured against all the other girls on account of my dress, my hair, my makeup, my every action, who I do or don't speak with, and heavens help me if I dance!” She heaved a sigh. “No, it won't do. You gentlemen have it so much easier than we ladies.” Edith smiled. “But I wish you and father all happiness as you go."

He looked somewhat crushed, but she gave him another warm smile. “I think Father is waiting. You'll look after him, won't you?”

She held out her arm. He put his beneath it and they descended to the foyer. Father looked up with something akin to a hopeful expression—when he saw her still in her nightgown, the look deflated somewhat. She giggled and released Alan's arm. “Don't worry. You lads will have much more fun without me.”

She looked to Alan. “Don't let him drink too much.” Then she looked to her father. “And no pontificating, brawling or flirting, either. No matter how fetching the ladies.”

Father chuckled. “I'll be a saint!”

The men climbed into the motorcar and rolled away. The second the engine's rumble had receded Edith ran back upstairs and jumped onto her bed. Her heart began to pound, her head to buzz with excitement. She straightened the blank paper and dislodged books, fumbled for the pen and dipped it in the well with trembling hands. Perhaps the publisher had been right to a small degree. Perhaps she had been missing something. Her pen was poised at the ready.

Perhaps a romance could be interesting...with a Byronic, thwarted dreamer as the tragic male lead. She shivered with joy and began the frenzied draft.

Words flowed. It was the kind of moment writers lived for, the unhindered gush of imagination across the page. One page, finished. Two pages.

A coldness seeped into the room. She slowed, the sharp tunnel-vision of concentration fading. The vivid world in her mind became a sheet of paper once more. What had...

The doorknob began to jiggle wildly. She watched it, silent, and rose.

If the doorknob was jiggling like that, she would not stand by the door. In fact, she would take the caliper divider from her map in one hand and a paperweight in the other and crouch behind the bed. And she would crouch to the side, so that she could see whoever was entering before they could see her. If she had to make the first move, she couldn't hesitate afterward. 

First she would throw the paperweight. In the resulting moment of surprise she would stab the attacker with the divider until they disengaged. She would continually attack them until she had chased them from the house or they had become unresponsive. She gripped the divider and took a deep breath. Being a writer prepared one for all sorts of strange situations.

The banging stopped.

Her jaw tightened.

A thin, wailing voice filled the room: “Beware, child! Beware Crimson Peak!”

She stood, brandishing the divider. “Make a sign of peace and I will not harm you!”

Before her materialized the gauzy black figure of a woman.

Cold horror struck through her chest. “Mother,” she whispered. “Why have you come like this?”

The spindly phantom shook her head, lifted her hands as if helpless to communicate. The banging sound began again, fast and seemingly from all directions as if it came through water. The ghost dissipated; the coldness faded and the lights returned to normal.

The bedroom door slammed open. “Miss?” Millie stood in the doorway, eyes wide.

Edith's voice trembled and she lowered her makeshift weapons. “Yes, Millie?”

“Are you alright? I thought I heard...” The pause extended.

“What did you hear?”

The servant's face was conflicted. Finally she shook her head. “I don't know.”

Edith nodded. “Thank you for your concern, Millie. I was feeling a bit odd myself.”

They stayed facing each other for some seconds, drawing comfort simply from proximity. Then almost simultaneously they nodded. Millie returned downstairs. Edith sat slowly on the bed's edge and released a deep breath.

 


	5. The Mirror

A man's voice sang from behind and she jumped, fumbled for her divider again. The hall was empty.

 

“Jolly old boys,

Such slaves, to fashion

Basking in their glory;

 

Stay you alone,

Despite your suitors;

Maybe my luck will triumph!”

 

Still no sign of a singer. She took a deep breath.

 

“Angel, where are you?

Please, I beg you

Torment me not with hiding;

 

Angel, my soul is weak;

please hear me.

Make yourself apparent.”

 

A chuckle.

“Dear haunted child,

you shall know me;

Out from the shadows I'll stride.

 

Look at your face in the mirror--

I am there, behind!”

 

Edith looked in the mirror.

Standing in the hall with an impish grin was Sir Thomas Sharpe, holding a satchel.

“Thomas?”

“There's another mirror in the hall,” he said, stepping forward. “Position the two just so and you'll disappear entirely!” He winked. His expression darkened with concern. “But it seems I'm not the first to haunt you tonight.”

She chuckled. “No. I've been seeing things.”

“Things?”

She shook her head. “Since I was a child...my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“...Her ghost.”

He gave her a curious look.

“She died when I was young. I have only seen her a few times, and each time—the same warning. 'Beware of Crimson Peak'.”

A strange look crossed his face. “What do you think it means?”

“I suppose it's a place? But not one that I'm familiar with.” She pursed her lips. He shrugged, and she chuckled. “Why are you here?” He was dripping. “You're soaked!”

“I know. I think your father does not care for me, so I waited outside until he and the good doctor had gone.”

Her face flushed and she smiled. “Why?”

“I wished to try my luck at petitioning your favor.”

She bit her lips. “For?”

“Why, milady, there is a ball tonight! Although I understand you have already spurned the plea of a most worthy gentleman, so it is with sheer tomfool desperation that I hope to turn your head.”

“Well...given that rejection, you could see how it might be uncomfortable for me to arrive on the arm of another gentlemen.”

“Yes, of course.” His tone took on a secretive air. “But what if nobody knew you were there?”

She cocked her head.

“I propose we turn this ball--” With a conspiring smile he opened the satchel and removed two lovely masks-- “into our very own masquerade!”

She laughed. “But we'll be the only two wearing masks!”

“Exactly.”

Her heart fluttered. It was a wondrous idea; spontaneous, edgy, wild! Just the sort of thing bookish Edith would never do. Just the sort of thing her heroine would. “Surely they will recognize me,” she breathed.

He raised his eyebrows and donned his mask. It was black, covered the upper half of his face and extended down his left cheek and jaw. The edges and eyes were outlined in dark blue. He was right. If she hadn't just been speaking with him, she wouldn't have recognized him. He held out hers.

It was shaped like a delicate butterfly and molded with exquisite golden patterns.

He smiled. “I wasn't sure what you would like, so I took a stab...”

Words failed. “It's lovely,” she whispered. She took it, ran her fingers over the beautiful ridges.

“So...have I your answer, lady?”

Her heart pounded. She could go with him—slip on the mask and become a new person, a daring person, an adventuresome person; one whom could not be pinned down or insulted, one whose real face was protected from the outside. She took a breath. “I'll need a moment to change.”

He nodded and adjourned to the hall.

“Millie!”

Hurried footsteps on the stairs and Millie came, startled. She looked from Thomas to Edith. Edith beckoned and Millie nearly tripped over her feet in attendance. She closed the door.

“Hurry, hurry, you must help me change!” She ran to the closet and flung open the doors, shifted through clothes. They were all walking dresses, day dresses...

“Millie, do I have anything to wear?”

Millie tried to catch a glance over her shoulder. “To the ball?

“Yes, the ball!”

“I thought you were staying.”

“I was!”

Edith reached the end of the rack and they shared a look.

“You haven't a thing to wear,” said Millie.

“You're right.”

Millie took a breath. “I could...find you something.”

Something in that tone. “What do you mean?”

“I'll be right back, if it please you.”

Edith nodded slowly and Millie left. A minute or so later she returned with a lovely golden dress in hand.

“Where--” a strike of fear. “Mother's.”

Millie nodded.

Edith swallowed. The cold seemed to seep back into the room; but the butterfly mask sat upon her bed. She took a deep breath. “Thank you, Millie.” Millie helped her change, then arranged her hair. Edith sat before the mirror, mask before her, heart pounding. She was beautiful.

Her father had told her, and she had believed him—but her belief had been that she was beautiful in his eyes. That was enough for her. However, the words of the others girls: _dusty...spinster...plain...academic...boring...invisible..._ had created the frame in which she truly lived and acted.

But now, staring in the mirror, she saw for herself. She was beautiful. She lifted the mask in trembling fingers, rested it against her face. Millie tied the ribbons.

The masked face that stared back could be anyone, do anything. She stood. “Thank you.”

Millie stepped aside and Edith opened the door.

Thomas's face brightened. “You look lovely,” he said.

“I know.” She winked and he laughed, put out his arm. She took it. Only ever had she held father's or Alan's arm.

He led her down the stairs, outside, to a carriage.

The ride was like a dream. She was leaving her book-nest to be her heroine, immune to the judgments and disparaging glances of the other women. She was what they wished they could be.

He helped her from the carriage, opened the door and they entered the hall. Music and laughter came from within. Again he put out his arm and again she took it. They shared a conspiring smile. Was she really doing this?

Together they entered.

The crowd glittered in finery: shimmering gowns, clinking flutes of champagne, crystal necklaces and feather plumes in elaborate hairstyles.

A few glanced over, and at their glances others followed. Soon the eyes of the whole room were upon them. Some murmured, gestured; some seemed confused, suggestions and shaken heads as they tried to deduce the mystery couple. It was delicious.

Eventually the room slipped back to chatter, but the presence of their stares and thoughts was almost palpable.

She leaned in and whispered. “What do we do now? They'll know it's us if we talk to anyone.”

“Well, I don't think they'll recognize you...” He trailed off. At the piano was a woman in a shockingly red dress. It was as if the colors around her had been desaturated--as if her dress had, like a vampire, bled the vibrancy from its surroundings. The train spilled over the bench to pool on the floor, and her pale fingers flew over the keys in the tail end of Chopin's ballad in G minor. The twisted ridge down the back of her dress almost resembled a spine. Edith blinked and shook her head and the resemblance muted. Writers. She chuckled to herself.

The woman at the piano finished. Slowly she turned and cast a glance at Thomas. She had a cold air, out of place. The two seemed to know each other.

“My sister, Lucille,” he whispered.

Lucille and him shared another glance. Then she turned back to the piano.

“Are you familiar with the waltz?”

She had heard of it, seen it perhaps once before. Her heart fluttered. It hadn't even been a century since it lost its stigma. She shook her head.

“Ah.” Thomas took a candle from a candelabra. “I enjoy keeping a journal,” he said. “I was instructed to write down the things of note I experienced and store them away as possible ideas for a story.”

She smiled. “I do the same.”

“Would you like something to write about?” He gave her a mischievous grin.

Suddenly she was nervous. “That depends...”

He stepped back and raised his voice to address the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may.” All eyes turned to him, and her by his side.

Her heart froze. If not for the mask, her face must have been as red as the piano-woman's dress.

“You may have deduced from my accent that I am not native to your charming country. And it is a very charming country. However, if there is anything lacking in so lovely a place, it is dance. If I may, I should like to gift you with a demonstration of the proper European waltz.”

Gasps from among the crowd, scattered applause, a buzz of murmurs.

He held up the candle. “It is said that the greatest waltzers are able to dance without extinguishing the flame of a candle.”

Her heart plummeted to her feet and he turned to her.

She shook her head slightly. “Oh, no...”

He held out a hand. “Would you be mine?”

Blood pulsed against her eardrums. “I—I can't dance. I've never waltzed—I couldn't possibly--”

He smiled. “Just follow my lead.”

“I...I can't...” but almost against her wishes she held out a trembling hand, and he took it.

The room was silent.

He nodded at Lucille and flashed Edith a smile. “You've written waltzing scenes, haven't you?”

Lucille began to play.

“Writing and doing are two different things!” she gasped as he put a hand to the back of her waist and pulled her close, held out the candle and they grasped it together. His hand was cold, soft as her father had said. He was a full head taller than she and her eyes were about level with his shoulder. He hadn't seemed so tall before. He nodded, she returned it, and they stepped onto the dance floor.

Waltzing was fashionable now, but not long ago at all it had been the 'godless spinning dance' of the Germans. Herman William had satirized it in his _The Dance of Death—_ according to him, it was a sure sign of a culture's depravity!

Her feet followed his and they glided around the floor, the flame flickering but bright. Her hand in his, the fabric of his coat, the rhythm of their steps. The room receded into a blur of colors and shapes. His eyes were blue, held her reflection and that of the room behind. There was something unreadable behind them—something locked. At once he was familiar and alien, a stranger and a friend. Her dress swished as they turned. The candlelight cast a pleasing glow on his face and glinted off the mask. She hadn't thought him particularly handsome before, but now even in disguise his features became more pleasing with each turn.

It felt natural just to gaze. It had never felt that way before; not with Alan, not with anyone. But here their unbroken stare was as easy as breathing.

The music came to an end.

How long had it been?

The candle's flame was still strong, and the room exploded into applause.

She grinned and blew it out.

As he released her hand, she brushed his fingertips; callused, like she had said. She smiled. A workman of a different kind.

 


	6. Moths and Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edith explores her feelings, and finds a difficult choice.

They left early to avoid Father. The guilty feeling made her queasy, although she couldn't have done _truly_ wrong. Father felt one way, she felt another, but the issue didn't seem one of morality. Besides, it wasn't like she had gotten married. Nobody even knew it was her, so she couldn't have done any harm.

She bid Thomas a hasty farewell before running upstairs to change. The second her door closed, however, there was the click and squeal of a doorknob from below and her father's voice rang up from the foyer. “Edith?”

She took a breath, leaning with her back against the door. Her heart sank. Of course he would've recognized her. She was wearing her mother's dress. She winced, bit her lips, slipped off the mask and stepped back into the hall, advanced to the balustrade. “Yes, Father?”

He looked somewhat confused, a little upset. He lifted his hands, shook his head.

“I went with Sir Thomas, father. But it wasn't...nobody recognized me. Except you. Dr. McMichael won't be offended, and I won't have brought scorn on our family.”

Her father cleared his throat, slowly. Then he looked up at her. “Why did you avoid me?”

She swallowed, and her cheeks burned. “I...” She sighed. “I'm sorry. I know you don't like Sir Thomas, and I was afraid you would be disappointed. I don't regret what I did, but I didn't know how you would feel if I tried to explain it. So I decided to keep quiet. I didn't want you to worry.”

He took a breath. “Then you obviously already know how I feel about him.”

“It's not serious, Father. I haven't done anything like that before. I wanted to try. Just once. It sounded like so much fun, and it was such an adventure, and it was more for the experience than for him anyway.”

Father's shoulders rose with a deep breath. Then he nodded. “I suppose there's no harm done. But you can always tell me, Edith. I'm not your enemy.”

“Oh, Father, I know you're not!” She ran halfway down the stairs and clutched the banister, but couldn't bring herself to stand beside him. “That's not why I was silent at all.”

He nodded again. “I know. But Edith?”

“Yes?”

“Take some wisdom from your father. It is hard-earned, and amassed over a hard life. Watch out for that Sharpe.”

She opened her mouth to protest and he lifted his hands in a gentle silencing motion. “I understand your reasoning and why you did what you did, and I don't fault you for it. You have done no wrong. However...in the future, enjoy yourself, but do be careful. I'll tell you again--there's something about him that I don't like.”

She nodded with a sigh of relief. “Yes, Father. And I haven't done wrong?”

“No, child. No wrong done. Just know that you can tell me in the future.”

She swallowed, eyes stinging with tears. “Thank you.” She ran down the remaining stairs, swung around the last railing and embraced him, kissed his cheek. “I would never want to have you disappointed in me.”

He patted her shoulder. “I'm proud of you, Edith.” He put his hand under her chin and lifted her gaze to meet his. “And you shone like an angel tonight. Most beautiful young lady in the whole room.”

She blushed and smiled, hugged him again.

 

But there was something about Sharpe from which no amount of paternal maligning could dissuade her. She didn't want to marry him, per se—she wanted to learn about him. She needed a model for her tragic romance, and he fit the bill exquisitely. She sent him her manuscript and he corresponded. They began to meet, not infrequently, and not infrequently during their meetings she mentally narrated his actions over her character. The way he moved, the way he gestured, the intonation of his voice...Story-Sharpe wouldn't be an exact copy of the real one. That would be unoriginal and bad form. But he could give some valuable inspiration, especially to someone whose interaction with the opposite sex was close to nil.

But even as she reminded herself the interest was strictly business-related, a warmth began to gild his words and actions, especially as he read her work. His unique perspectives opened a new world: a dark world, a world deep and complex and alluring. It was the world of his mind, a world of dead ends and mazes and false starts and a wonderful, sad, romantic, intelligent, passionate heart beating at its center. It was a puzzle. It was a fascinating game, unlocking the secret of those blue eyes that could say a thousand words in a look and yet stare without any indication of their true thoughts. That game pushed itself to the forefront of her mind. It overrode the circuits of her thoughts and pounded along the corridors of obsession.

So this was love.

She lay on her bed, alone, candle burning low and manuscript clutched to her chest. The ink had dried on her pen. She hadn't touched it for the past half-hour.

Romantic love, as she'd seen it in others, had been either a silly physical attraction or an undefined emotion. It meant being the project of a man who saw a pretty face with an unfortunate bent towards willful independence and thought: 'if I could only fix _that',_ I'd have a nice pet!' Goodness help the poor girl who thought she could think for herself and manage her own affairs! It was a thing of pity, a clapping on of chains.

She'd been wrong.

What she now felt was not that. It wasn't some vaguely pleasant feeling. It burned from the deepest part of her soul, a fascination with all he was—not even as a man, but as a mind. The way he thought. The things he thought about. The way he saw the world. The influences that had created his viewpoint. The things he had done and the contributions he had made, and the ideas he had yet to frame. He was brilliant, visionary, passionate. It felt at times like they were one soul, both the same and yet so very wonderfully different.

It radiated out to his personality. His speech, his voice, the angles of his face and the flash of those wonderful mysterious eyes. What she hadn't thought handsome before became the model of attraction.

This was the scorching desire written about by the great minds from millennia past. Up until now it had been for 'other people', those who could caper about with their hearts on their sleeves and trade kisses for compliments with the first face they fancied. She had never been one of them. Her heart was precious, and none she'd met so far were worthy. But Thomas was an equal. A friend. An encourager, and one who sought her encouragement in turn. He saw her for who she was: a soul and not a body. She was unfettered by gender, roles, stereotypes or empty constricting pleasantries. With him, she was free.

Curiously enough her freedom was constantly monitored by Lucille. She accompanied them on their outings, sometimes reading quietly a distance away, other times walking with them. She too was intriguing. Her eyes had the same curious locked gaze peculiar to her brother. Except where his offered an occasional flash of the heart beneath, hers were impenetrable. She was cold, fiercely intelligent, loyal and proud; yet beneath her condescension was fear. Its substance was never seen, but she lived in its shadow. She and Edith walked together now and again.

On those outings it was amazing how chilling a smile could be. How dark could be a pleasantry about the weather, how ominous a comment on butterflies. Lucille seemed to have been deeply hurt, and had wrapped the pain in layers of thorny pride. It became stifling to be around. Some nights as Edith laid alone and reminisced of the previous day it seemed that Lucille hated her...and then the next day, seeing her again, was the smile really fake? Was she closer to a breakthrough? Was that a glitter of sincerity? Could she begin to unlock these eyes as she had Thomas's?

But the darkness in Lucille's eyes was deeper. The darkness there was loved.

 

The next weeks were spent frequently in each other's company, and her father's outlook became increasingly resigned. With each friendly question-- “Where did you go?” “Who with?” came a hesitance on her response and an avoidance; a feeling of rejection on his, a spark of anger, a smothering of the flame and the slow burn of hardening bitterness. Father channeled the bitterness into anxious disappointment. It was obvious and painful, and brought out the bitterness in herself. Frustration.

They sat in the drawing room, a silence waiting to boil over into conversation. Her throat was tight and her face was flushed, posture stiff. Father stood facing away, leaning against the mantelpiece. It shouldn't be this way. It couldn't be this way. Why couldn't they see the same way?

Finally, enough. “What is it about him, Father? Can you tell me exactly?”

His hands tightened on the mantle. “I...I don't have an exact proof. But Edith, trust me!” He turned towards her, face flushed and stormier than it had been since mother's death.

Her heart squeezed and she swallowed. “I...” her lips trembled. “I've never felt this way about anyone before." She took a breath. "There is darkness in him, I see it too. But I believe he can change. He just needs someone to prove to him that he can! And he wants that, but he's afraid. I understand that.” Her voice dropped, and she looked away, fingering the handle of her teacup. “I know what it's like to feel that your dream is too big, and you've wasted too much time already on something that won't turn out. I know what it's like to be looked down upon and scoffed at because you're different. But me...I have you.” She looked back at him and tears welled up fresh in her eyes. “You always told me I could reach my goals. And even when the whole world was against me because I was non-conformist, or eccentric, or a woman, you stood by me. You supported me. You showed me what love is. You made me strong.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I've come this far today because you've been by my side through everything.” She wiped them away. He blotted his eyes on his sleeve.

“I think that's what Thomas needs. Because I think he's like me. He's a dreamer. He does things nobody else does or would have thought to do. But he doesn't have anyone to believe in him, and so he doesn't believe in himself. I think if he was given a chance to discover his potential and act upon it, he could be a truly great man.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Father sat beside her on the couch and embraced her. She hugged him, and the teardrops made damp pats on his shoulder.

His voice was soothing, choked with emotion. “I will always love you..." A pause. "...Even if I cannot change your mind. I know you are intelligent and strong. The path ahead of you is clouded, and I sense darkness. I wanted to shield you from whatever might lurk there, but I can see your heart is set.” He pulled back and gently held her face in his callused hands. “I don't know what lies before you, but...even if you land in pain, in danger or heartbreak, I know you will find your way back. I have said all I can. The choice before you is yours to make. Either way you choose, I love you all the same.”

They hugged again. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you too.”

 

 


End file.
